Chapter 12 #4
He gestured around them at the frivolity and glamour all around them, at the peacocks that were stalking about the garden, and the huge six-tier cake that decorated the centre of the refreshment tent.
Yet, even as he said the words, he began to wonder.
The old Lady Cecelia had hated these things, and yet, since having been reunited with her, he had found her somewhat changed.
The way she held herself with such elegance, how she put so much investment into trying to find a husband, how upset she was with him for believing it was all ridiculous.
“Some of us cannot afford to stay away from such things,” Lady Cecelia said, a tone to her voice. George opened his mouth to respond, but before he could do so, she dipped a curtsey and said, “If you will excuse me, I ought to be conversing with potential suitors.”
George barely had the time to nod before she spun on her heels and stalked away, leaving only her scent behind.
And what a wonderful scent it was, lavender and honey, just as she had worn when she was younger.
If he closed his eyes, he could still see her as she had been, rambunctious and dirty, rebellious and loud, fun even.
What had happened to that girl?
She was still beautiful, devastatingly so now, and yet it appeared her spark had been dulled. And that made George's heart ache.
“Is it just me, or is Cece even more sour than before?” Elizabeth asked, nudging George in a way that caused him to realize he had been staring after her.
George huffed and ran his fingers through his hair, hair he had taken careful consideration to have cut along with a shave, at his mother's insistence, of course.
“I believe she is feeling the pressure,” he admitted, his chest aching somewhat at the thought of all she was being forced to endure. Having only recently lost her father – whom George knew she had been very, very close to – the very last thing he suspected she wished to do was look for a husband.
But what do I know? he thought, reminding himself of his grudge against her quickly so not to fall into any foolish trap.
“Well, it is good she has you to help guide her,” Elizabeth insisted, and George realized her hand was still upon his arm.
He placed his hand over hers and smiled down at her. “I am unsure as to whether she would agree.”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes and gave his arm a gentle nudge. “You and I both know Cece has always been the most stubborn of us all. She would never admit it, whether she valued your help or not.”
George laughed at that, feeling a little more at ease with an old friend and confidante beside him.
With one glance at Lady Cecelia – seeing she was occupied with a gentleman he knew well and had no obvious complaints about – he asked Elizabeth, “Shall you have a drink with me, Miss Avery?”
The way she fluttered her lashes at him was so unlike the sour expression Lady Cecelia might have given him, and he decided, for today at least, he would let her go about her own business.
“It would be my honour, Your Grace,” Elizabeth responded, and for once, the title did not grate on him as it did with others. He could almost imagine that they were children playing a game in which he was merely pretending to be a duke and she a pretty young lady.
Perhaps that was how he might get through all of this, by playing pretend?
And so with that in mind, he guided Elizabeth after her brother and Lady Mary, only glancing back once to see that though her attention was entirely upon the gentleman before her, there were a line of suitors all buzzing about and waiting for her attention.
And he could see why, for she shone like the brightest flower, putting all others in the gardens to shame.
“Are you alright, Your Grace?”
Only when she spoke did George realize that he and Elizabeth had made it to the tent.
Clearing his throat, determined to put Lady Cecelia from his mind for a little while, he assured her, “Yes. I was merely looking to see whether there might have been any new arrivals. And please, call me George, Lizzie, we are friends, are we not?”
Elizabeth smiled at that, and they began to talk just as old friends might, of his travels and of Elizabeth's own in Italy, where her parents had sent her to learn due to France's having been at war.
He listened attentively to her as he came to remember that Lizzie had always been a wonderful storyteller, and before long, he had almost entirely forgotten his reason for being there.
It was only when he spied Walter and Lady Mary walking up the lawn towards them that he suddenly remembered.
Cece!
His heart skipped a beat as he realized he had allowed himself to pretend a little too well, giving all too much attention to Lizzie and none at all to his duties as chaperone.
Seeing Lady Mary, and seeing that her sister was not with them, he felt his throat close off.
Rather rudely cutting off Lizzie mid-sentence, he called to Walter and Lady Mary, “Have you seen Lady Cecelia on your wanderings?”
Lizzie did not seem in the least bit flustered by his rudeness – as if she knew well why he was really there – and she followed his gaze across the gardens in search of their old friend.
“I don't see her,” Lady Mary said before she turned her attention right back to Walter. “Tell George what you just–”
“Please, Lizzie. Forgive me, but I’m afraid I must take my leave of you,” George said. He placed the half-empty glass he had been drinking from on the tray of a passing servant and dipped a bow.
“It is I who should apologize for distracting you, George,” Lizzie said, “let me help you find–”
Before she could finish, George was already well on his way around the gardens in search of his charge.
He stopped several times to ask friends and acquaintances as to whether they might know Lady Cecelia's whereabouts, asking after Lady Mary and Walter, too, not to make it quite so obvious that he was growing exceptionally worried.
It was when he stopped to ask Lady Ashmore herself that George's gut really started to churn.
“Lady Cecelia? Why, I do believe I saw her headed in the direction of the rose gardens and the maze with the Marquess of Blackburn.”
The rose gardens were perhaps not too awful. But the maze?
George's insides twisted.
“Thank you, Lady Ashmore,” he said, dipping his head. He turned and walked as leisurely as possible, not to arouse too much suspicion.
Yet, by the time he reached the gate of the rose garden, he was furious. What had Lady Cecelia been thinking? To wander off unchaperoned was entirely stupid and utterly dangerous.
A thousand scenarios scattered through George's mind as he hurried to find her.
With one glance back over his shoulder to ensure he wasn't being watched, he slipped through the gate.
Upon entering the rose gardens, it became abundantly clear that neither Lady Cecelia nor the marquess was there. In fact, it was empty save for a bird or two and a butterfly fluttering about the roses.
Ordinarily, George might have taken a moment to admire the beauty, but right now, there was only one thing on George's mind: Lady Cecelia's utter ruin.
How could she be so foolish? he thought as he hurried around the fountain at the centre of the rose gardens and headed for the entrance of the maze.
To go somewhere with a gentleman unchaperoned was one thing, but to enter such a private and secluded place with him was quite another.
He was barely able to stop himself from shouting her name, from drawing attention, as he raced through the maze.
Several times, he came up against a dead end, wishing he could barge right through the hedges until he found her.
That's when he heard the voices.
He paused for a second, straining his ears to try and pinpoint the source.
And that's when his blood began to boil. “My Lord, what do you think you are doing?”
The panic in Lady Cecelia's tone was all too evident, and George's heart skipped a beat.
“No! I said no! Please, My Lord!”
George's blood was fire in his veins as he turned a corner in the maze to find himself in the very centre.
And there, pressed up against the podium of the centre statue, was Lady Cecelia.
Pinning her there was the marquess, his hands gripping her hips in an unsightly manner as he nibbled her neck.
The way she pressed her palms against his chest, how she struggled, told George all he needed to know.
In a storm of rage, he threw himself forward and grabbed the marquess by the back of his collar.
“What the—” the man exclaimed as George yanked with all he had, flinging the man away from Lady Cecelia to place himself between them.
“Are you deaf, My Lord?” he growled through gritted teeth, barely able to contain his anger. Over his shoulder, with a glance to be sure she was alright, George demanded, “What were you thinking coming here unchaperoned?”
His attention was immediately drawn back to the man as he squared up, shrugging his shoulders, and adjusting his jacket.
“You know very well what she was thinking, Your Grace,” the man sneered, his smile almost sadistic.
No. George shook his head. Lady Cecelia would never.
She was many things, but this was not one of them.
With all that was on the line, George couldn't bring himself to believe she would be so rebellious.
“I shall only say this once, sir, so listen well,” George said, his tone so menacing that he almost scared himself, “if you do not leave this party immediately, I shall see to it personally that your standing in society is entirely ruined.”
He met the man's gaze without flinching and saw how the marquess’ confidence started to shake. They both knew that he outranked him, that he could very well follow through with his threat.
“Are you so high and mighty, Your Grace?” the man asked even as he took a step backwards. “I cannot believe you have never taken your liberties.”
George's anger flared uncontrollably then, and he strode forward, grabbing the marquess by his collar once more. The way he gasped suggested his airways had been partially cut off. George squeezed harder.
“Do not make me say it again,” he snarled into the man's face, “if I do, I shall be sure to follow through with the threat.”
The marquess grabbed George's wrist then and snatched his collar from his grip.
“You act as if this is all my fault,” he sneered as he took several steps backwards towards the exit. Pointing an accusing finger at Lady Cecelia, he added, “She was perfectly aware of what she was doing. She practically asked for it!”
It took all George had in him not to throttle the man. Instead, he tightened his hands into fists, standing rigid with his jaw clenched so hard it hurt, and glared at the man until he finally saw sense and made his quick exit.
The moment he was gone, George turned on Lady Cecelia.
“How could you be so reckless? What were you thinking? Are you utterly foolish?”
He was too wound up to see the look on her face, to recognize the tears that glinted in the corners of her eyes.
“If anyone else had found you here, if he had … if he had …” He couldn't bring himself to say the words. “You would be utterly ruined! Your family would be entirely ruined. Your sisters’ prospects would be—”
“He … he told me you were going to join us at the maze entrance,” Lady Cecelia said, her voice thick with tears. “When we got there, he suggested that maybe you were awaiting us inside the maze.”
Her words dampened George's anger. Sympathy began to take its hold as he finally recognized the panic in her face, the trauma the marquess had caused her.
“Why didn't you wait?” he demanded.
Lady Cecelia glanced down at her hands, where she was playing nervously with the lace of her gloves.
“I requested to,” she said, and George noticed the way her throat moved as if she were struggling to swallow. “He said if we didn't find you in the maze, we would return to the party.”
“And you believed him?” George snapped.
Lady Cecelia's head whipped up then, and as she met his gaze, a single tear rolled down her cheek.
She quickly wiped it away, her expression hardening.
“I thought you would be here,” she said, glaring at him now. “I thought you were watching me.”
Guilt claimed him then.
This was his fault.
She was right.
He should have been watching her.
Instead, he had been giving all his attention to the wrong woman.
Lizzie didn't deserve any of the blame.
This was entirely down to him.
He had failed her.
“Come here,” George said, and before she could respond, he grabbed her by the arm and pulled her into his embrace.
She clung to him so viciously that it made his heart ache as the scent of her filled his nostrils.
He closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of her pressed against him, and his arms tightened around her. He held the back of her head as she nuzzled her face into his chest.
It was the sound of a bird rustling in the hedges behind him that made George pull back quickly.
They couldn't be found alone like this. No matter how he wished to remain there, comforting her for as long as she needed him, it would destroy her if someone were to witness such an intimate moment.
The disappointment on her face was evident for only a moment before she seemed to compose herself, stepping away until the statue prevented her from going any further.
“Come,” he said through gritted teeth, “I'll escort you back to the party.”
She didn't argue. Instead, she silently dipped her head, and George put a little more distance between them as he turned to exit the maze.
As they walked, barely within reach of each other, George felt every inch of his body fighting to move closer, to take hold of her hand, and assure her that all would be well.
Though she had composed herself, the tension in her shoulders, in her entire body, told him she was still traumatized by what had happened.
A part of him wished to apologize, to tell her he was sorry for having assumed she knew exactly what was going on. But he kept his mouth firmly shut.
Neither of them uttered a word as they returned to the party.
The moment they did, he saw how several men turned their attention on Lady Cecelia, and it was at that moment that he came to realize.
For the first time since the war, he had something precious to lose. All he could do now was pray that nobody else had been witness to their being alone together.